


Counting Sheep

by katsudontfeedthepiggy



Category: Black Lagoon
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-17
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-21 05:46:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4817345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katsudontfeedthepiggy/pseuds/katsudontfeedthepiggy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She isn't overly fond of long drawn silences. Revy x Rock. Oneshot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting Sheep

**Author's Note:**

> My first story on here. Hope I'm doing this right.

187

188

189

190…

Revy isn't overly fond of long drawn silences. There is a reason she sleeps with the music blasting in her ears; keeps her from thinking about things she'd rather avoid considering. But there are always nights like these, when she can't fall asleep; maybe she isn't drunk enough, maybe she isn't tired enough. Nights like these when she rests on her side, knees pulled up to her chest, staring blankly at the empty darkness outside her window.

It has started to rain, she registers vaguely; the water droplets loud but soothing as they pelt the glass and the metal drainpipe just outside; the occasional thunder only adding to the storm inside her mind. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath.

221

222

223…

She releases her breath in a long drawn sigh; the correct breathing pattern escaping her mind. She notes she holds her breath for too long; nothing uncomfortable, just confusing. Her lips stretch in a wry smile. Her fingers trace a vague image on the lightly fogged glass. Everything was confusing her off late. Breathing patterns aside, she spends most of her time alone in a state of vague awareness. She is sure she thinks of something when she zones out but draws a blank whenever she wonders what.

A yawn bubbles in her throat though it never comes, leaving her slightly frustrated. She curls in on herself; her hair falling in her face, tickling her nose lightly, she blows at the strands.

256

257

258…

The tick tock of the wrist watch on the crate near her bed is loud in her ears despite the steady pitter patter of the rain outside. She wonders vaguely about how long it's been since she returned from the Yellow Flag, not drunk enough, kicked off her boots and flopped down face first on her bed; the old mattress squeaking under her weight. She hasn't slept a wink however. She's been counting instead.

269

270…

She counts because it's better than counting boring sheep or listening to the rainstorms. She counts to drown out the voices in her head; those vicious voices gnashing their teeth, baring their fangs and attempting to escape their confines and swallow her whole.

Like a monster hiding in the closet.

She screws her eyes shut.

291

292…

Sometimes, even now, in the middle of the night the thought of something lurking in the shadows terrifies her. Sometimes she is afraid to leave her bed for fear of something reaching out from underneath and pulling her into the dark. It makes her laugh; she's an adult who lives on the cusp of death all the time. It terrifies her.

She doesn't want to think.

305

306…

So she counts. Because she hates feeling lonely. She isn't social. She doesn't know how. Her attempts at 'play' and 'meet' aren't ideal. She can scare people away faster than she can tie her hair. She isn't even feminine. She shivers.

It's getting colder.

314

315

316…

She shuffles backwards against the warmth and sighs. She is anything but feminine. Rowan calls her a natural dominatrix, a sort of insult in her mind if she thinks about it long enough. But she doesn't like to think. Especially right now, when she isn't drunk enough to pass out halfway through her introspection and self discovery. But he's right and somehow she doesn't feel insulted. It's true after all. She's hard and scarred. She can't act shy to save her life. At least she can make omelets; just slightly charred.

He seems to not mind though; occasionally, when she is feeling generous enough to make him some, that is. Of course that doesn't matter to him; the charred eggs that is. Nothing really seems to bother him much. Her Japanese partner slash negotiator and official team mascot and the occasional hostage when the enemies need one.

He is a liability sometimes. (Of course she chooses to ignore the higher profits since he joined.)

332

333

334…

So she counts. Because she is sick of him breathing down her neck all the time, following her around like a mother hen. She hates him for holding her hair out of her face when she empties her gut after drinking too much and for holding her steady when the stairs to her apartment play tricks on her feet. She hates his stuffy attitude and his clean image and his green tie. And the way his grey eyes seem to see right through her sometimes. (Not that she notices the color of his eyes. Of course not.)

She hates everything about him.

So she counts. Because somehow even in his sleep he seems to notice she's cold. His arm, much stronger than when he'd been a salary man, wraps around her waist from behind, pulling her close. Even in his sleep he breathes down her neck; nuzzling her hair lightly, mumbling something about mortgages and balance figures. She hates how he shifts and puts some of his weight on her side. He's not too heavy but he's warm and she hates that she's not.

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359…

She hates his mumbling and his constant motion. He seems to be most active in his sleep it seems; it's annoying. She hates how his light snore are more soothing to her ears than the thunder storm outside has ever been. It's stopped raining she notices absently. Maybe it slipped her mind because she's been counting. Which makes her hate him even more.

She hates that she counts his every snore.

363

364…

He mumbles again, this time about some gundam. She's never heard the term. She rolls her eyes as he tightens his hold on her waist. She breathes better, the pattern more natural, less pause, more deep breaths. The monsters under her bed and in her closet (in her mind), seem to have retired for the night. She closes her eyes, her lids feel heavy. She's glad because she has a job to do in the morning. She leans back against his warm chest, his crinkled shirt soft against her back. Again he mumbles something but she's too tired to care.

369

370.

A fleeting thought makes her lips twitch in a shadow of a smile. She stops counting.

Maybe she'll hate him some more in the morning.


End file.
